


would you lay it all on me now?

by cathect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, there are romantic undertones if you squint hard enough, this fic is like a year late lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 19:59:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13982265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathect/pseuds/cathect
Summary: -“I just wanted to say,” John’s hands press together on his lap, “that I don’t blame you.”He should have said this a long, long time ago. Some twisted part of him had been content to watch Sherlock torture and destroy himself, but that piece of him has diminished, tucked itself away, no longer necessary for his self-preservation.“Not deep down,” the doctor clarifies. “Not at the heart of it all.”-or the one where john and sherlock have a much needed conversation.





	would you lay it all on me now?

**Author's Note:**

> a few notes about this fic:  
> \- yes, okay, i KNOW this fic is like a whole ass year too late. but basically i was planning to turn this into a really big get-together fic, and then never got around to it. but this part has such a solid ending line, and i really like the way i wrote it, so i decided to share it with the world.  
> \- basically this is set before the little montage of john and sherlock being super gay dads in the finale of season four.  
> \- uh, yeah. enjoy.
> 
> thanks to mac for beta-reading! you're the best and i would die for you!
> 
> (song title taken from "lay it on me" by vance joy)

_“In three words, I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.”_

_(Robert Frost)_

 

-

 

It’s a curious thing to John, how easy it is to fall back into old routines.

There’s a serenity that has fallen over London, as if it’s exhausted from housing the violence and the villains and the barbarity that John and Sherlock have become so accustomed to; like it’s pressing them to _please_ _just do something normal with your free time for once_.

And they do. Instead of hunting down killers, or solving puzzles sent to them by psychopaths, John and Sherlock focus their time and energy on rebuilding the home and life they once had.

John sells the house he shared with Mary, the first step of many in his own sort of healing process. Half of the money goes into a fund for Rosie, and the rest goes towards fixing the windows, replacing the furniture, and anything else that will help fix up 221B Baker Street.

It’s the same, but it’s different.

And it’s not just that the new couch doesn’t feel properly broken in, or that the right window in the living room doesn’t have that same crack in it. It’s the atmosphere. Something is definitely different, and it really bothers John that he can’t put his finger on it.

John and Sherlock spend a lot of time not talking for the first few weeks. There’s an unspoken agreement that the silence— save for things like soft _hey_ ’s and the whisper of a _could you hand me that?_ —  will be broken when they’re both ready.

It’s not uncomfortable, not really. They’ve always had the ability to communicate without words. Sherlock always knows when John can’t get himself up at the sound of Rosie’s cries, and John always knows when Sherlock needs to isolate himself.

John’s alone with his thoughts a lot more than usual now, finally getting the time he needs to properly mourn Mary. This is the first time he’s really allowed himself to grieve, and the five stages seem to hit him all at once.

One moment he’s throwing things, yelling and cursing until his throat is raw, and the next he’s praying to a God he doesn’t believe in, telling him he’d give anything to have her back. He cries, he screams, he cries again, and foolishly hopes that acceptance will come easily.

He wonders, on many occasions, if Rosie knows that something is different, if something broke inside of her like it did in him. He can’t imagine she doesn’t feel anything, but it’s likely that she’s unable to understand it, and won’t remember the feeling properly, or even at all, when she’s older.

And then there’s Sherlock.

John’s been so focused on himself that he never once even considered the possibility that the great Sherlock Holmes has never had to process something like this. The number of people in the detective’s life that he truly cares about is very small, and to lose one of them has to be taking a toll on him as well.

He’s not as confident as he once was. He doesn’t use drugs to distract himself anymore, not after all of the healing he had to do the last time, and John knows that he must be painfully aware of the sorrow and sobriety wracking his body. It’s an odd thing, to see the strongest man John’s ever known, broken down in front of him.

There’s a night, after weeks of isolating himself, that John knows he has to say something.

Sherlock is sitting on the couch, eyes closed, hands clasped together under his chin. There’s a cup of tea— room temperature, untouched— on the table next to him, and his breathing is even and steady. John suspects that he must be in his _mind palace_.

As gently as possible, he sinks into the cushion next to Sherlock, looking his friend over. It’s rare to see him in such a state of peace, and he’s reluctant to pull him from it. But this conversation has been more than a long time coming.

“Sherlock.” The detective’s eyes open before John’s even finished.

“Sorry.” Sherlock clears his throat after his voice comes out a little hoarse. “Did you need me to look after Rosie?” He goes to stand, but John’s hand grips onto the sleeve of his robe, keeping him in place.

“I thought maybe we could have a chat.” John swallows thickly as Sherlock looks over his face, and he can feel himself being deduced. He knows it’s involuntary, a habit, and it doesn’t bother him like it might have once. But he almost wishes that Sherlock would let himself wonder for once.

“What about?” The question is purely for John’s benefit. Sherlock knows exactly what it’s about, has probably already thought of fifteen possible outcomes. His nerves hang between them, palpable in the air.

“I just wanted to say,” John’s hands press together on his lap, “that I don’t blame you.”

He should have said this a long, long time ago. Some twisted part of him had been content to watch Sherlock torture and destroy himself, but that piece of him has diminished, tucked itself away, no longer necessary for his self-preservation.

“Not deep down,” the doctor clarifies. “Not at the heart of it all.”

Sherlock hasn’t said anything, but the way his eyes are flicking back and forth between John’s and the doorway just behind his head, says that he’s both literally and metaphorically, mapping out his escape.

“John.” He closes his eyes. “It’s my fault.”

John adamantly shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow together as he shuts his eyes tighter. “It is.”

“It’s _not_.”

It takes Sherlock glancing between them for John to realize that he’s grabbed onto the taller man’s hand, fingers wrapped around his tightly. There’s a solicitous bubbling in his stomach as he watches his best friend struggle with this truth.

“Look at me, Sherlock,” John commands softly. Sherlock does as he’s told, moisture glistening in the outer corners of his eyes. “You did not pick up a gun, point it at Mary, and pull the trigger. It is not your fault.” At the mention of her name, Sherlock’s hand twitches under John’s, like he wants to curl it into a fist.

“I’m so sorry.” His words come out broken and weak. It’s unclear what he’s apologizing for— Mary’s death or blaming himself— but John’s heart clenches just the same, and he releases Sherlock’s hand to pull him into a tight hug.

It’s rare for the two to show such physical affection. Their friendship has always consisted of verbal or unspoken moments of respect and fondness. John has touched Sherlock more times in the last few months than he has in all their years together.

It’s a long time, too long maybe, before they part to the sound of Rosie crying in John’s room. John releases the grip he had on Sherlock’s shoulder, clearing his throat.

“I’ll get her,” he says.

“No, let me.” Sherlock’s voice makes it clear that he needs to. John thinks there must be something about his daughter that soothes his mind. Sherlock disappears and, a minute later, Rosie’s wailing does too.

It’s late now, much later than it was when John first came into the sitting room, and the sound of London at night is a comfort in itself as he rubs his hands over his face, dragging his fingers back through his hair. The combination of noise from the street and soft, golden light from the lamp next to him sends a warmth through his body.

 

And for the first time in a long time, John Watson finds a moment of peace.

**Author's Note:**

> drop a comment letting me know what you think since i need it to survive!
> 
> come visit me on tumblr @devilstrip


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